Merenda
by Beguile
Summary: Hannibal gets Will cleaned up for dinner. Scene-fill for "Dolce". One-shot.


Disclaimer: The characters and concepts in this story are the property of Thomas Harris, Bryan Fuller, and their related affiliates. This is an amateur writing effort meant for entertainment purposes only.

Summary: Hannibal gets Will cleaned up for dinner. Scene-fill for "Dolce". One-shot.

Author's Notes: Watching "Dolce" – and struggling through all the bloody feels that episode induced – I was immediately wondering about Will's blackout in Sogliato's apartment. I remembered this fanfic written for the movie Hannibal about the good doctor preparing Clarice for dinner at Krendler's. It was a lush fic with him tending to her wounds and bathing her while she was unconscious. I don't remember the title of it, but if you know it or a fic like it, please let me know. I owe that writer a note of thanks for inspiring this.

The dialogue at the end of the fic is from the "Imagination" promo, and some of it was in the actual episode.

I didn't take this as far as I could have with the Hannigram (I'm not comfortable writing non-con), but this can easily be read as pre-slash.

The title refers to a light meal taken between lunch and dinner.

* * *

Merenda

"Give that a moment."

The cocktail is layered, and Hannibal intends to admire its bouquet. He designed it to richen and ripen as it percolates in Will's body. The sedation and numbness come first, so Will is uncharacteristically calm. Still observant, but observation means so little without memory and blackout is imminent. He doesn't want Will to remember being prepared for dinner. He wants Will's brain marinating in its own imaginings, seasoning itself with all the delicious fantasies that Hannibal sought to maintain. He is so going to miss them when they're gone.

That's when the hallucinations start, visual and auditory. Will's eyes drop to half-mast and his breathing quickens. Hannibal sneaks a hand over the mangled half of Will's face, relishing the weight of it against his palm. He drags a thumb over the black eye and the scabs, combs his fingers gently through Will's hair. Will clings to just enough awareness that his eyelids flutter, lashes like bird's wings, a mind in flight instead of fight. His best rebuke is a sad moan and a nudge against Hannibal's palm, which only gives the doctor a better grip on his features.

Hannibal does eventually draw his hand away. The heat and perspiration from Will's skin lingers like phantom flesh, and he wonders if his fingertips will tickle, years from now, with the bristles of Will's cheek.

Chiyoh's aim remains spectacular. Her intention was for a superficial injury, a momentary distraction. A blessing and a curse: Hannibal did not expect Will's forgiveness to be so brutally delivered, but he so hoped these last moments would be spent in lucidity and clarity. Will blissfully unaware of the slaughter on his own merits. Savouring the moments they have left. Hannibal has already committed a room in the memory palace for these preparations, but he's careful to catalogue the smaller details of these moments to memory. The way Will's head finds his shoulder as his jacket is removed. The way he tenses when Hannibal applies iodine, the drowsy sounds he makes during surgery, and the way his eyelids open when Hannibal cleans the wound tract as if he knows he should be in pain.

The absence of pain is always a stronger measure than true agony. Hannibal wonders if that's how Will quantifies missing him.

Hannibal stitches the wound carefully – as if, he notices, the wound is going to get a chance to heal. His intentions are purely aesthetic. There's going to be enough blood at the table without this interrupting, and the only cuts Hannibal wants display are ones he's made.

No gauze, not for now. There's far too much blood. Hannibal drags his thumb through the coagulated mess, tastes it. Will is cedar and cold earth, truffle and sea salt. Enough of Will's blood sticks to the grooves in Hannibal's thumbprint. The good doctor looks at Will, who blinks slowly, sluggishly. He's losing a staring contest with the floor. Briefly, Hannibal considers the possibility of simply running away. Will – chemically restrained, malleable, open to suggestion. Careful treatment could rid him of his apprehensions, his doubts, his morality.

Hannibal gently gathers Will's hand in his, recalling their encounter at the library. Recalling the calm that descended upon the space, the ecstasy of two halves returning to be whole once again. He doesn't have that now, not with this facsimile of Will. No sense of reunion or confluence, only the thought that the show must go on. Dinner must be served. Hannibal drops Will's hand and rises from the sofa. He wraps his arms around Will's trunk, cradling Will's head carefully between his hand and the crook of his shoulder. He then lays the younger man down on the couch.

The motion causes Will to stir somewhat. He furrows his brow and tries to speak. Hannibal lifts his feet to the couch before tending to him. "Rest, Will," Hannibal runs a hand over the crown of Will's head. "Just rest."

* * *

Hannibal leaves the soup brewing on the stove and returns to find Will in much the same position he was in before. His respiration's a little less even, like he's slowly coming out of a fugue. Hannibal's confident in his chemistry though. He wants Will relaxed and responsive, so he's pleased, then, as he places Will's feet back on the floor, to see the younger man's eyes open. To see them staring with purpose instead of dumb confusion.

"How are you feeling, Will?" Hannibal asks.

Will swallows. His eyes close because he can't see and speak at the same time, "Dizzy…"

Hannibal leans over his torso, slipping his arm under Will's uninjured shoulder to grip him tightly from behind. Will still hasn't opened his eyes, but Hannibal can see the tendons in his neck tensing and releasing. "I'm afraid you'll be dizzier yet," Hannibal starts to lift Will into a seating position. "Deep breaths, Will. You'll find your balance soon."

Will takes the suggestions as soon as he leaned against the couch-back. Before then he's too busy struggling to move and failing. Hannibal suspects that his arms are giving him the most trouble. Proximity always was uncomfortable for him. Hannibal pushes his advantage and takes Will's vitals.

"Easy, Will," Hannibal quiets him.

"I'm having trouble remembering," he doesn't or can't say what.

"That's not surprising," Will's pulse is slow but strong. "Thrown from a train, the long walk into Florence, being shot: you've had quite the day."

Will lets his head fall forward. His crown ends up in front of Hannibal's face, damp with perspiration. Still smelling like train and forest. Hannibal runs a hand over the nape of Will's neck. "Let's get you cleaned up for dinner," he says.

Though he's able to speak now, Will yields easily to suggestion. He manages a single nod before lapsing back into his haze. Heaving him into a standing position is simple. He drapes over Hannibal's side, almost dead weight, as his feet get tangled up beneath him.

"Where are we?" Will mumbles.

"Does it matter?" Hannibal counters.

Will hangs his head against Hannibal's shoulder, eyes closed, "No. No, it doesn't."

"Still dizzy, Will?" Nodding, clumsy and difficult. Hannibal pats him on the side, "Almost there. Remember to breathe deeply."

Will groans from the lights and buries his face to hide his eyes, so Hannibal dims them until he feels Will emerge. Sogliato's bathroom is a muted space of gray walls and glass panels. His bathtub is built out of the wall with dark gray tile under a grid of windows. There's enough room around the sides for Hannibal to work, and he intends to savour this, like everything else tonight.

He sits Will on the edge of the tub against the wall. Will holds himself upright, eyelids open to mere slits on his face. The sound of running water lulls him back into a doze. Hannibal takes Will's hand and holds it under the tap. The warm water carries the blood from their fingers. "Does that feel good, Will?"

"Hmmm…" Will leans into it. Hannibal stops him before he can lean too far.

He leaves Will's hand under the tap as he moves to remove the rest of the lad's ruined shirt. The topmost buttons are all caked with blood. Hannibal almost tears the shirt to avoid negotiating with them. As he moves further down, Will's breathing picks up again. Hannibal's grabbed when he reaches toward the abdomen.

Will doesn't have the strength of anything but his convictions. Makes for a futile battle, one fought largely out of principal and fear. His hand pushes Hannibal's away, and he makes a sound trying and failing at being, "No."

"I'm unarmed, Will," he clutches Will's hand with his empty palms, smoothing his fingers over pressure points on his wrist. "I don't want you to feel any pain."

"You don't…deserve…the satisfaction…"

"This isn't about satisfaction," Hannibal sneaks on hand past Will's almost non-existent defences and undoes the rest of the buttons. The shirt opens to a jagged smile. "You'll feel better after you've had a bath."

Will doesn't argue, can't argue. Wants to: he holds his mouth open, huffing out breath instead of words. Hannibal grips his hand tightly, "No pain, Will. I promise." Not yet.

The drugs more than his promise see that Will is calm as the rest of his shirt is removed. Blood and scar tissue and bruising: Will's chest tells violent tales. The tub is full by then, steaming. Hannibal adds a handful of salt before returning to Will. He runs a hand along the scar left by his blade almost a year ago. The cut that divided them before leading Will straight back to Hannibal's side.

He gets Will's pants and underwear off in a tenuous negotiation of holding and tugging. There are more bruises on his thighs and ankles from the track train. Will's body is a Monet. Impasto water lilies dot his chest and legs all the way to his feet. Hannibal is careful not to touch them as eases Will into the warm water of the bath.

Will exhales in release. Tension flows up and out, pushed by the rising water. He watches it float to the ceiling, then lets his eyes fall shut again. Hannibal wonders if he's not wading into his own personal stream, wonders if that's still Will's memory palace after everything that's happened.

Hannibal finds a cloth in Sogliato's well-stocked cabinet. Kneeling at the edge of the tub, he starts to gently work the blood from Will's skin. The water steadily turns a pale shade of pink as the blood melts away. Soap helps him clean out what's collected under Will's nail. There mustn't be any trace of the injuries Chiyoh has inflicted by the time Will's seated at the table.

He notices the tension in Will's rotator cuff when he tries to lift the arm. No wonder he shook so much while shooting Hobbs. Hannibal shifts his focus to Will's shoulder blade. There's a triangular shaped scar over the join. With Will held upright, head bobbing forward, Hannibal presses down on the old injury, massaging it with his thumb.

Will moans, slurs, "What are you doing?"

Quietly, tenderly, "I'm taking care of you, Will."

There are other places Hannibal finds to touch. Stress collects everywhere in his body, and he's been drawn tight on a hunt for Hannibal. The good doctor rewards him – no, not rewards him. Respects him – enough to dispel all that. Let there be the pretense of forgiveness, of comfort, even now, as time ticks on towards the end. He moves to the nape of Will's neck, nearly snapped by Chiyoh's action on the train, and massages it until Will moans some more, louder this time.

Hannibal's hand work down, between his shoulder blades, loving each of Will's vertebrae individually. Will breathes deeper, his rib cage loosening. He heaves a shuddering breath when Hannibal takes to stroking his back in long, languid lines with the bar of soap. More bloody lather floats around Will's naked spine. Hannibal brushes it away and continues scrubbing down Will's uninjured arm.

He tilts Will's head back into his palm, opening his neck up like a lamb brought to slaughter. Hannibal wields a cloth instead of a knife, but he still makes a sweeping motion like he's cutting for a jugular. If Will notices, he doesn't react. He's drifted back into senselessness, and remains that way as Hannibal squeezes water from the wet cloth over his face. Water streaming over his cuts and bruises, washing away the horrors of obtaining them.

The slightest moments on his legs make him tremble. Hannibal examines the injuries clinically; they're all on the surface, nothing's broken. Will's neuroses must be re-emerging from their chemical sleep. He twitches when Hannibal's touch reaches his thighs, behind his knees, his groin. "Just relax, Will," Hannibal urges, keeping his touch detached as much as possible. Will responds with more breathless babble, his eyes still closed, but he does succumb once more.

Hannibal leaves his hair for last. He fetched a cup earlier from the kitchen to pour water over Will's head. He finds holding the rim of the glass right against Will's hairline produces the most gratifying reaction. Will lets his jaw hang, his lashes fluttering, curious but lost in a fog of drowse. When the water rushes over him, Will sighs and sinks back into the water. Hannibal's given him his stream, here at the end of all things. The next time he pours water, he lowers the rim of the glass to the middle of Will's forehead where he will make his first cut.

The reaction is even stronger than he first. More confusion, more curiosity, another moan. Hannibal runs his fingers through Will's wet curls, hushing him, soothing him. No pain, not yet, he promises.

He works shampoo into a later and drives it down into Will's scalp. Whatever tension Will has left, whatever reservations might have surfaced with time, all of it melts away. He surrenders to Hannibal, dissolving in the good doctor's hands. His neck limp, head lolling. Hannibal relishes the weight of it. There will be enough Will to feed him through his mourning period. Enough Will to never be truly alone.

"Are you enjoying this, Will?" he asks, not really expecting an answer.

He gets one – "Yes" – and the tone of Will's voice is half-pleasure, half- confusion. Yes, he's enjoying this, but he doesn't know where he is or what's happening. Hannibal scrubs a little harder, mollifying the confusion with sleep.

Yet, when he's finished, Hannibal stares into Will's open face and is pleasantly surprised to find he's being stared back at. Will's eyes are finally open, and it looks like there's actually a person behind them again. Like Will has retaken his mind for a moment and knows exactly what's happening to him.

"Hello, Will," Hannibal smiles.

The sound of his name breaks the spell. Will closes his eyes and lets his head drop into the water, "Hannibal."

* * *

As the tub drains, Hannibal retreats. He checks the soup and prepares the restraints for dinner. He finds Will some clothing. The professor and Will are almost the same size. Hannibal raids Sogliato's closet for garments. White plates are the best for display, showing all the components of a dish, so Hannibal lays out a white dress shirt. No tie: this isn't a formal gathering. Just three old friends sitting down to a final meal.

Will has settled back into vacant silence. His eyelids hang drowsily, opening and closing as he breathes. Hannibal approaches him slowly, not wanting to break the spell, but there truly is no spell to break. Will Graham is perfectly tranquilized. His mind is the only part of himself that's truly active. With that is mind, Hannibal begins drying off the younger man's head, patting down his shoulders, rubbing down his arms. Will nods off in the midst of it and he does not wake even as Hannibal heaves him back to his feet, out of the tub, and down the hall to the bedroom.

"What's for dinner?"

Hannibal smiles a little. The smells in the hallway must have triggered something. He leans Will on the bed and draws a pair of clean underwear up and over his legs. "You should never ask," he replies, pulling the pants on next. "It spoils the surprise."

Will casts a sad expression around the whole of Sogliato's bedroom, as if he knows the professor is dead. Hannibal pulls him into a sitting position, balancing Will against his torso. Will's head finds its way to his shoulder and stays there for a long moment.

When Will starts falling backwards, Hannibal finds he can't help but hold on for just a little longer. This is going to be the last time he touches Will without a weapon in his hands. This is the last time they are going to be civil with one another. This is the last time they can truly be called friends. Briefly, Hannibal wonders if things would be different had Will not pulled a knife in the Piazza. Could he still eat Will if Will's forgiveness seemed genuine? Logic dictated that this was the only world they had; fantasy wondered if there wasn't another, where he and Will had dinner with Jack as they should have in Baltimore. They could leave here tonight, together.

Hannibal rubs a hand down Will's back one more time. Drapes the crisp, clean shirt over his shoulders and proceeds to dress him. He is a creature of logic, not of fantasy. It's one of the many qualities he and Will share. It's why Will pulled a knife on him in the Piazza, and why Hannibal is still going to have his meal before leaving Florence.

Still, Hannibal does not want a brain soured by logic for dinner tonight. He rubs a hand under Will's chin, urging the young man's eyes to flutter anew. "Just use your imagination," Hannibal prompts. Imagination may not trump logic, but it does make logic that much sweeter.

* * *

Happy Reading!


End file.
